by Lao She
There was another reason to be choosy. The only way in which Ma Tse-jen felt he could cast lustre upon his ancestors was by becoming a government official. He had an earnest devotion to the notion of being a mandarin, and would not lightly pass up any chance of becoming one. Remarriage offered one such opportunity, so it went without saying that you shouldn’t rush it. Supposing he married the daughter of some senior government bigwig? Surely he’d be bound to obtain some post on the strength of his father-in-law? Or supposing . . . He did a lot of supposing, but, all said and done, supposing is mere supposition, and none of it transformed into reality.
‘If I could marry the daughter of a government department head,’ he would often say to others, ‘I’d be able to bank on an assistant secretaryship at the very least.’
‘If a department head’s got a daughter, do you imagine she would ever marry you?’ the others would reply.
It was soon pretty clear that there were no hopes of either marriage or a government career for Ma Tse-jen.
By the time Ma Wei had read three novels and completed his studies of the Four Books of the basic Confucian canon, Mr Ma sent him to a church school in the west end of the city, because Ma Wei could board there, which would save his father a lot of bother. When he’d nothing else to do, Mr Ma would often go to church to visit his son. There, the Reverend Ely’s words gradually enlightened his heart, and he was in due course baptised into the Christian Church. In any case, he didn’t have anything else to do, and taking a leisurely trip to the church not only proclaimed his piety but also cost him no money. After he’d been baptised, he stopped playing cards and drinking wine for a whole week, and bought an English-language bible bound in red leather for his son.
The year the Great War ended, Ma Tse-jen’s elder brother had gone to London and opened a business selling curios. Every four or five months he would send his younger brother some money, and sometimes he would also entrust him with the task of searching for goods in Peking. Ma Tse-jen despised traders and merchants, but now and again he would bring himself to buy a few old vases and teacups and so on for his brother. Every time he went to Liu-li-ch’ang, where all the china potteries were, to purchase a few such things, he would pop round to a place by the Ch’ien-men Gate and drink a few cups of Shao-hsing wine, and eat some fried triangles.
And then Mr Ma’s elder brother died in England. In his will he directed his brother to come to London to carry on the business.
By this time, the Reverend Ely had already been back in England for two or three years, and Mr Ma took up his English dictionary, and wrote him a long letter, asking him whether he should in fact come to England or not. The Reverend Ely was naturally tickled by the idea of a Chinese member of his church coming to England; he could show his parishioners that missionaries in China really did do more than eat food and collect money. He sent a reply to Mr Ma, telling him that he and his son absolutely must come to England.
So Mr Ma took his son to Shanghai and bought two first-class boat tickets, two Western-style suits, a few canisters of tea and a few other odds and ends. As the ship left port, the elder Mr Ma got the sense that his innards were all surging in unison. He took off his spectacles and lay down in his cabin, and barely moved an inch.
III
ALTHOUGH THE officials of the English Customs vary in appearance, you would never mistake them for those of any other profession. One of their eyes is always looking at you while the other is consulting some dog-eared book of regulations. A pencil, which is always a half-pencil, is stuck behind an ear. There are invariably a few wrinkles on their noses, contributing to the overall animation of their faces. Towards their fellow countrymen they are most affable, jesting and joking as they examine passports, and when it’s a lady they encounter, they’re particularly chatty. Towards foreigners, however, they have a different attitude. They straighten their shoulders, set their mouths and bring their imperial superiority to the fore. Sometimes, it’s true, they go so far as to give the ghost of a smile. Which is certain to be followed by refusal to permit you to land. When they’ve examined the passports, they disembark with everyone else, and, rubbing their hands together, they inform you, ‘Very cold weather.’ They might even praise your English, assuring you that it’s ‘quite good’.
Mr Ma and son went through the passport examination. The elder Ma had several of his brother’s documents at the ready, and young Mr Ma had an overseas-study certificate issued by the Chinese Board of Education, so they both passed through peacefully and uneventfully, without the slightest fuss. They proceeded to the medical examination. Neither of them had any internal complaints – no afflictions of the heart, liver, spleen, lungs or kidneys – so they passed yet another barrier without hindrance. The doctor even smilingly gave them some advice, ‘Eat a bit more beef while you’re in England. Make you fitter still. England beat Germany in the last war, and we won because English soldiers eat beef every day.’
The medical examination concluded, father and son opened their suitcases for the contents to undergo inspection. Fortunately, as it happened, they’d brought neither opium nor weapons with them, and the only duty that they had to pay was fifteen pounds or so on a few silk gowns of the elder Ma’s and a few canisters of tea. Mr Ma had no idea why he’d brought these treasures with him, nor why they should be dutiable. He puckered up his scrap of a moustache and quickly handed over the money, so as to be done with the matter. When he’d got through all the formalities, he was on the verge of fainting.
If I’d known it’d be so tiresome, he told himself, I’d never for the life of me have let anything persuade me to go abroad!
After leaving the dock, the pair boarded a train, where the elder Mr Ma plonked himself in a corner of a compartment, closed his eyes, and, without a word, went to sleep. Ma Wei sat by the window, looking out. The landscape was all ups and downs, no flatness anywhere. The high ridges of the land were green, and so were the dips, but the train was speeding along at such a pace that he couldn’t pick out any details. All that he could see was the bumpy green fields, green wherever he looked. The train went faster and faster, and gradually the green land became one verdant undulation. The few cows and sheep in the distance seemed like coloured flowers floating on springtime waves.
The elder Mr Ma was still sleeping like a little Buddha. Suddenly his lips parted. Probably he was talking in his dreams.
And then the train began to slow, and presently arrived in London. There was a huge crowd on the platform.
‘Hello, over there!’ called the porters to the passengers as they pushed their trolleys. ‘Hello there!’ called a husband, flapping his hat, to his wife. On another platform a train was setting off, and the passengers were waving to the people waiting, some with handkerchiefs. Then, in a puff of black smoke, the train disappeared. Newspaper vendors, flower vendors and cigarette vendors glided their trolleys about in solemn silence: English people approach buying and selling with the same air as they approach funerals.
Ma Wei gave his father a nudge to wake him up. Mr Ma gave a yawn, and was just about to drop off again when a young woman carrying a handbag walked out of the compartment. As she flung the door open, the corner of her handbag caught him bang on the nose. ‘Sorry,’ said the young woman, and Mr Ma rubbed his face, now thoroughly awake. Ma Wei scuffled wildly around to try to move their cases and other belongings. Just as they were about to step off the train, the Reverend Ely leapt on board. Forgoing the bother of shaking hands, he picked up the biggest of the cases and carried it out for them.
‘You’re here very promptly! Did you have any awkwardness at sea?’ the Reverend Ely asked, turning to the Mas as he deposited the big case on the platform.
Bearing a small valise, Mr Ma sauntered off the train, with the grand air of a Ch’ing dynasty circuit intendant alighting from his great palanquin.
‘How are you, Reverend Ely?’ he said, placing his tiny box on the platform. ‘How is Mrs Ely? How is Miss Ely? How —’
Without wait
ing for Mr Ma to complete his solicitous enquiries, the Reverend Ely snatched up the big case. ‘Ma Wei! Move all the cases over here. Except for the valise. You can carry that. Bring all the rest this way.’
Ma Wei went with the Reverend Ely to move all the cases into the left-luggage room. The elder Mr Ma, carrying not a single thing, slowly swaggered over to join them.
The Reverend Ely filled in the left-luggage form at the counter, inquired as to the charge and turned to Mr Ma.
‘Give the attendant the money,’ he said, ‘and the cases and other stuff will all be delivered to you this evening. That’ll save you a lot of trouble, eh?’
Mr Ma handed over the money, but felt rather uneasy. ‘The cases won’t go astray, will they?’
‘Of course not!’ The Reverend Ely’s little brown eyeballs rolled, and he gave Mr Ma a sharp glance. Then he asked Ma Wei, ‘Are you hungry?’
‘No, we’re not,’ the elder Ma hastily answered. It would be most unseemly for them to be clamouring for food the moment they arrived in England, and on top of that, it would make him feel guilty to have the Reverend Ely treat them to a meal.
‘Come on, now!’ the reverend said, ‘Just a little something or other to eat. Not hungry? I don’t believe it!’
Feeling that any further polite refusals might be out of place, Mr Ma said in an undertone in Chinese to Ma Wei: ‘If he wishes to treat us, don’t embarrass him by arguing.’
Father and son followed the Reverend Ely through the crowds and away from the platforms. Ma Wei stomped on ahead, with his back stiff as a coffin and his head held high, while Mr Ma, both arms swinging, and coat collar turned up a little at the back, swayed and swaggered behind him with a lordly gait. Outside the station, under a large glass-covered awning, there were two or three small cafes, into one of which the Reverend Ely led them. He selected a little table, and the three of them sat round it. Then he asked them what they’d like to eat. Mr Ma still insisted that he wasn’t hungry, although his stomach was rumbling. Ma Wei lacked his father’s politeness, but, having only just arrived, didn’t know what to ask for.
The Reverend Ely perceived that it was no use asking them, so he put forward his own suggestion: ‘How about this? A glass of beer and two ham sandwiches each.’
He stood up and marched over to the counter to place their order. Ma Wei got to his feet, and helped him bring the beer and sandwiches across. The elder Ma didn’t lift a finger.
You spend money for food, he was saying to himself, and you bloody well have to serve yourself? Pah!
‘I don’t normally drink,’ the Reverend Ely told them, picking up his glass, ‘but when I’m meeting friends, I like to have a glass or two – join them in a spot of good cheer.’
When he’d drunk alcohol in China, he’d always done so in secret, to escape the notice of his parishioners, and thus he felt obliged to offer some excuse. He downed half the glass in one gulp, and began to laud the cleanliness of the cafe to Ma Wei, going on from there to extol the orderliness of England in general. ‘There’s good old England for you! Notice it, Ma Wei? Aha!’ He chewed a mouthful of sandwich, grinding it meticulously between his false teeth before swallowing. ‘Were you seasick, Ma Wei?’
‘No, I didn’t feel bad at all,’ replied Ma Wei, ‘but my father didn’t surface the whole voyage.’
‘What did I say! And you said you weren’t hungry, Mr Ma! Ma Wei, go and ask for another glass of beer for your father. Oh, and bring me another glass, too. I like to have a drink, just for a spot of good cheer. Ah, Mr Ma, I’ve already found rooms for you, and I’ll take you to them presently. You must have a proper rest.’
Ma Wei brought their beers over and the Reverend Ely gulped his down in one draught, for ‘a spot of good cheer’. When all three had finished their meals, the Reverend Ely told Ma Wei to return the glasses and plates. Then he said to Mr Ma, ‘A shilling each. No, that’s not right – we two had an extra glass of beer, so it’s a shilling for Ma Wei, and one and sixpence for you. Got any change?’
Never for the life of him had the elder Mr Ma foreseen such a sly blow. A paltry matter of a few shillings, he said to himself, And you a clergyman! Some clergyman you are! Trying to be funny, he made to pay the Reverend Ely’s bill as well as their own.
‘No, no! When in England, do as England does. Each pays our own way. No insisting, now!’ said the clergyman.
As the three of them were walking out of the cafe, the reverend fished out six pennies, which he handed to Ma Wei. ‘Off you go, and buy three tickets over there. Twopence each. British Museum. Three tickets. Can you manage it?’
Ma Wei took only two of the proffered pennies, produced a further four from his own pocket and went to buy the tickets at the little window indicated by the Reverend Ely. As he returned with the tickets, the Reverend Ely guffawed. ‘Good lad! So now you’ve learnt how to buy tickets, eh?’ he said, pulling out a little map. ‘You, Ma Wei, I’ll give you one of these. Look, here we are at Liverpool Street. D’you see this red line? Go four stops, then we’ll be at Museum. This is the London Underground Central Line. Fix that in your mind, and don’t forget it.’
And with that, the Reverend Ely led the two Mas down into the Tube.
IV
MR WEDDERBURN had been dead for ten years or more. All that he’d left Mrs Wedderburn was the small house and a few shares.
Mrs Wedderburn could never recall her husband without soaking two or three dainty handkerchiefs with her weeping. Apart from his not dying in battlefield glory or leaving her a fortune, she had no cause to complain of her late husband. But every time she wept over him, those two things would somehow always pop into her thoughts. Had he died in battle for his country, not only would he have been called a hero, but she herself would at least have obtained some financial compensation – not in the realm of millions, but enough for her to buy a few more hats and a few more pairs of silk stockings each year. And on Sundays, when she wasn’t in the mood for going to church, she could buy a bottle of beer or something to drink.
It wasn’t long after her husband’s death that the Great War had broken out in Europe. She went to work, typing for a petrol company. She was patriotic but also pragmatic: they were short of staff everywhere, and she was able to earn some three pounds a week. As she typed, sudden memories of her husband would reawaken her bitter regrets. If only he’d lived long enough to do his utmost bit for the nation! And her tears would patter down in rhythm with her typewriter keys.
Had he still been living, he would have undoubtedly killed at least eight hundred German soldiers. And if he’d actually managed to capture the German Kaiser alive, they’d have promoted him to Field Marshal, wouldn’t they? And then of course she’d be well appointed, wouldn’t she? The more she pursued this train of thought, the more she detested the Germans. It was as though the Germans had purposely waited until her husband had died before starting the war, quite deliberately preventing Mr Wedderburn from earning his rightful heroic status. Kill the Germans! Wipe them out, every one of them!
As she mused along these lines, she bashed her typewriter with extra force, and when she’d finished the typing and took a look through it, she’d sometimes discover she’d punched several holes in the paper . . . and would have to retype the lot.
Young Miss Wedderburn was half her mother’s age. On leaving school, she’d gone to a trade school for six months and learnt how to sell hats, how to display hats in shop windows, and how to put hats on the heads of ladies young and old. On leaving the trade school, she’d found a job in a milliner’s shop in the City, where she earnt sixteen shillings a week.
During the war, Widow Wedderburn saved up a bit of money, and after the war she would only work when the petrol company was short of staff, so more often than not she was at home. While Miss Wedderburn was still at school, mother and daughter got on very well, and the daughter always did what her mother told her. But once Miss Wedderburn went to work in the milliner’s shop, feelings between mother and daughter took a tu
rn for the worse. Often they would argue hammer and tongs with each other.
‘Botheration! Let her do what she likes! The mousy-haired wretch!’ With tears in her eyes, Mrs Wedderburn would confide to her little dog, and, so saying, plant a kiss on the dog’s small pointed ears. And the dog would sometimes spill a tear too, to keep her company.
The problem of mealtimes was the major source of their rows. For the mother, everything had to have its proper order and set time. But for the daughter, in her first job, the City was an exciting place. On the way home she’d look for a few minutes in the sweet-shop window, then stand looking for a few minutes in the dress-shop window, and then into the jeweller’s window for another few minutes.
Just wait! she’d tell herself as she looked. Some day I’ll get a pay rise, and then I’ll buy that box of crystallised fruit, and that green satin gown with the embroidered hem.
The more she looked, the more she enjoyed looking and felt disinclined to move on, and she would completely forget about getting home. It wasn’t just that she came back late, either: no sooner had she finished her tea than she’d pop on her hat, and fly out again like some little bird. Her mother knew full well that the girl was off for some fun with her boyfriend. Nothing remarkable about that. What riled her, though, was that when the young lady returned – well into the night – she would launch into an endless account of all that had happened while she’d been out with the boy. Then she’d discuss at length various problems concerning marriage and divorce, without the slightest inhibition.
Once when the Reverend Ely was paying a visit, Miss Wedderburn selected several long passages from a letter that her boyfriend had sent her and read them out to the old clergyman. He had in fact dropped by with the intention of persuading Miss Wedderburn to come to church on Sunday, but as soon as he heard the letter, he departed in haste.